Things To Do In Sacramento When You're Concussed
by Snow'sLuckyCat
Summary: What happens after a baseball hits Patrick Jane in the head, fairly successfully knocking a few of his screws loose? An AU-ish look at 2x10: "Throwing Fire."


**Title:** Things To Do In Sacramento When You're Concussed

**Author:** Snow'sLuckyCat (aka Sharma aka jsl aka me)

**Fandom:** The Mentalist

**Categories:** Hurt/Comfort / Angst

**Characters:** Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon, and Kimball Cho mainly...

**P.O.V.**: First person, multiple. Told from within various characters'  
heads, and whom I usually switch between at each linebreak of  
"XXXXXX" that appears within the story...

**Summary:** What happens after a baseball hits Patrick Jane in the head and  
fairly successfully knocks a few of his screws loose? (An AU look at this week's  
episode, "Throwing Fire", based ONLY upon PICTURES that were released by  
CBS in September of 2009. The episode's promo VIDEO was STILL another  
month away from being seen by anyone, when I wrote the bulk of this...)

**Disclaimer:** I only WISH I owned Simon Baker and the rest of the awesome actor  
and actress clan from The Mentalist. In truth though, Bruno Heller (the creator)  
and CBS (the station the show airs on) are the owners. Please don't sue at any  
rate, for I make absolutely NO money off this, and so am just writing and  
experimenting with these characters of yours for FUN... :)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jane is out for ten minutes.

That's long enough for both Cho and I to worry about him, but not long enough  
for the paramedics to arrive.

When he comes to, he immediately tries to touch the back of his head, but stops short.  
Lets his hand float back to its previous position on top of his vest and his other hand.

"Jane?" I call, trying to get his attention.

"Lisbon?" he mutters, eyes opening, questing for answers, "What the hell hit me?"

"A baseball."

At this, he quickly swivels his face around to fix me with what might be a glare, only  
to have it quickly tempered by a wince and followed by briefly closed eyes, in reaction  
to his uncoordinated, too-soon head movement. And I wonder if he should be moving  
around at all. A slightly red puffiness is already making itself known on one side of his  
forehead, near his left temple.

"Funny, it felt more like a mack truck."

His eyes change prospective, drop down. Sees what I'm holding in my hands. "Souvenir?"

"It's the ball that hit you, man. Someone apparently hit an out-of-the-park home run.  
You were just in the wrong place when it came back down to Earth," Cho supplies  
before I can answer.

"Oh."

"You all right?"

"Fine."

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Had a weird dream."

This revelation smacks me in the face. "You had a dream. Just now?  
Jane, you were unconscious for barely ten minutes!"

"That all? Then, let me get up then. We've got a murder to solve."

"You sure that's wise, man? The paramedics aren't even here yet."

"Paramedics? Why do I need those? It was just a ball."

"A ball that caromed off your skull, like you were in a pinball machine."

He props himself up onto one elbow, semi-sitting up. Not that I try to  
stop him. He still seems a little dazed to me though.

"Can I see it?" he asks, ignoring my outcry of semi-concern. He gestures  
at the offending object held between my palms.

I drop the ball into his right hand. And then he sits all the way up, ball still  
firmly within his grasp. But, his eyes are already back to being unfocused,  
looking off into the distance but not really seeing the ball or anything else.  
His mouth hangs agape. It looks like his eyes are going to roll back into his  
head any minute. And we're going to lose him again. And I'm not going to  
be in any position to break his fall this time either.

Cho must sense something is amiss too. Because he leans farther over and  
grabs at Jane's wrist. The sudden physical contact snaps Jane back to the  
present. And I see his eyesight sharpen, refocus. His gaze drops back down  
to the ball and then to the hand still gently encircling his wrist.

A hesitant Cho lets go after another beat and stands, though he chooses to  
hover nearer than he had been before. Jane remains in his former position.  
Not keeling over. Not passing out. Still not really all there with us either though.

Jane's fixation on the ball is now starting to worry me more than his unconsciousness  
had. I don't see any blood on it. Is that what he's looking for? Proof of bodily contact?  
I try to get the harsh sounds of the ball as it'd hit Jane head-on and then of his body  
as he'd collapsed like a pile of bricks out of my memory. To no avail. So, I can still  
viscerally vouch for Jane and this errant ball becoming intimately acquainted. I'm  
quite sure that Cho can as well.

"Jane?"

It's like he doesn't hear me.

Grunting, he stands. Drops the ball. Wavers. Takes a step, then another,  
off into the trees, off towards the sheet-covered corpse.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, Cho?"

"Does Jane seem all right to you?"

Distantly, I hear Jane begin to mutter words to himself. The concern creeps  
back into my voice.

"Keep an eye on him for me, would you?"

"So, I'm not the only one who thinks he's looking a bit unsteady then..."

I give him a pointed look.

"Right." He trots off down the small downhill path, after Jane. I hang back  
to talk with our liaison for the time being, Freddy Fitch, some more. He seems  
like an okay enough guy, despite the unfortunate name he's been saddled with...

XXXXXX

By the time I've caught up with Jane and Cho, Patrick is squatting next to the body,  
looking at the victim's bloodied hair, a finger to his lips. He has his thinking face on.  
Cho glances at me as I come around him to stand next to Jane.

"What do we have?" I ask Cho.

Jane answers instead. "What we _have_ is a dead body. A dead body that's been  
bludgeoned to death. Someone bashed his head in with what looks to be a short  
barrel bat, maybe a Louisville Slugger. Something tells me an angry right-handed  
baseball player or right-handed fan who knows how to wield a bat may have done it."

"Really?" I'm impressed. "Why right-handed?"

"Because..." he groans out, momentarily peering up at me. "The wounds and blood spatter  
are arced upwards towards the head, as opposed to downwards and away from it. Whoever  
hit him hit his shoulder first, then his head with the follow-through. Probably not on purpose  
though. He meant to hit the head only..."

"Wow. That's some consultant you've got," Fitch remarks, coming up next to Cho just in time  
to hear most of my consultant's theory, a sense of familiar wonder in his voice. "Is he a bit  
daft? He's only just been clocked in the head by a 90 mph home-run ball, and he's already  
analyzing the scene like he was right here when the murder happened."

"You don't know the half of it," Cho answers, with an odd sense of pride.

Distantly, I hear sirens. The medics are approaching.

"Jane?"

"Yeah?"

"The medics are here. I think they'd want to take a look at you...Just to be on the safe side."

"Yeah, okay, but no hospitals."

"I won't let them take you, unless it's absolutely necessary."

Jane considers this compromise for a moment. "Okay."

He stands, brushes himself off. Wavers again. Stumbles a little as he walks off back  
towards the path and the road beyond it. Only Cho and I seem to notice his stumble.  
We do not acknowledge it, until Fitch goes away to talk with the people who discovered  
the body and round up more statements.

"Don't you think we should make sure he gets seen by the medics? After all, you already  
know how he usually is around them..."

"We have a job to do already. Let's process the scene, then worry about Jane. Okay?"

"All right, boss."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The sirens of the ambulance hurt my ears and make my eyes water. The headache from  
Hell is back. At least, there's a real reason for it now. Getting hit by that ball was not one  
of the most coordinated things I've ever done. Nor was it the most graceful. And that  
snippet of a dream I'd had while unconscious from the blow to my head was definitely  
troubling. I hadn't even thought of my father since well before even my wife and child  
had been taken from me. I'd blocked him completely out of my memories.

At least, I _thought_ I had.

Now, all I could see was him. Looming over me, like some specter from the past.

The sirens have stopped.

The ambulance has settled in front of me. And out steps my long-dead father.

"So, boy, what _have_ you done to yourself _now_?" he snarls softly.

I back away. Shaken. Nervous. Wanting to bolt, but rooted to the spot.

A claw of a hand reaches out to me. Grabs at my wrist. Pulls me forward. Pulls me off-balance.  
I fall. A loud rushing sound fills my ears. And I silently wait for the beating to rain down on me  
like a flash flood. I never feel it.

XXXXXX

"Sir!"

"Patrick, answer me!"

"Snap out of it, man!"

A cacophony of anxious, concerned voices reach my ears through the now-subsiding roar. Two,  
I recognize. One, I don't. None are my father's. I feel dizzy and hot and short-of-breath, even  
though I know it's a cold January afternoon and I haven't been out running anytime recently.

"I think he's hyperventilating." The unknown voice.

"Patrick, please look at me!" Lisbon. "You need to slow your breathing down." I can't ignore  
either command.

I focus on her mouth. Matching her, long, gentle breath for long, gentle breath.

Soon, I feel better.

"Do you know what happened?" Lisbon asks. Her hand lightly settles upon my shoulder,  
keeping me grounded.

I shake my head. If I pretend what just happened didn't, then I think I'll be better off.  
Best not to alarm Teresa or Kimball with it, at least not right now.

The unknown man - who thankfully no longer possesses the face of my father - pipes up.  
"It looks like he had a classic panic attack. When we got here, he was just standing on  
the side of the road, blankly staring off into the distance. I got out, knowing he was the  
guy you told us about from your description. Caucasian male, late 30s, medium height,  
medium build, curly blond hair, blue eyes...Anyway, he just about bolted when I jumped  
out. Looked more than a bit skittish. He tripped on the uneven ground over there and I  
tried to catch him...You know the rest."

Lisbon sighs, taking it all in. "Jane, I really do think you should go to the hospital."

"Nonsense, Teresa. I'm fine. Really. Right as rain," I say, wincing slightly at the bad  
metaphor that had indeed just slipped out of my mouth.

"Okay, fine. I could force you, but what's the point? So, I give up. Just don't try  
to run off again," she advises, mock-sternly.

I smile at her turn-of-phrase.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I assure her.

She smiles at this.

XXXXXX

After a few more minutes of Teresa and Kimball looking around one last time,  
we are ready to leave. The locals are cooperating and are going to send to  
the body of the baseball scout back to CBI Headquarters for autopsy and  
safekeeping. I don't think they'll find anything much different from what I've  
already told them, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. After all, it's no  
big deal that they want to be thorough and make things more official...

Thankfully, the medics are gone now, having taken their blasted siren and  
accursed ambulance with them.

I feel tired, but at least Cho had let me back into the car early. I had slid  
onto the backseat, to patiently wait for them, like a balloon with a small  
leak in it. Slumped over, slightly broken in, slightly sinking further into the  
seat's plush fabric. I sigh softly. I am getting too old for this shit...

Lisbon comes around to the driver's side and opens the door. She quietly  
slides in and starts up the car. Kimball rides shotgun. Then, they start talking  
about I-dunno-what. And, before I know what I'm actually doing, I tune out.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Lisbon's eyes are the road. Mine are on Jane. He fell asleep just before  
we hit the highway.

Possibly before even that.

It's not like Jane to sleep in the SUV. Not even when he's the only one in  
the back. He's usually up and alert. Mainly because he suffers from a mild  
motion sickness that prevents any kind of en route cat nap he might want,  
or even need, from ever taking place.

He seemed fine. Up until his panic attack. He doesn't normally have those  
either. When faced with blood and gore and dead bodies, he looks at it  
clinically, logically. Never emotionalizing it, but for maybe a brief moment.  
It takes a lot to visibly rattle him.

The silence in our car isn't unpleasant. But, it _is_ unusual.

Jane likes playing word games, even when his two favorite targets,  
Wayne and Grace, aren't here.

But, Jane's still asleep.

He stays that way the whole way back to the office.

Lisbon doesn't bother him once.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

I wonder if he'll listen this time to what I'm going to tell him. If Rigsby and  
Cho and Van Pelt will successfully sit on him. Last time I said that though,  
he had been in an explosion and lost his sight. But, he still hadn't listened  
then, nearly getting himself and Grace killed in the process. If I hadn't been  
out in the lot when that jerk-off lawyer pulled a gun on them...

I mentally shake myself from that bad memory and back to the present situation.

Jane's resting silently on the couch, eyes closed. He's not asleep, not yet.

"You, stay right there. Nobody take him anywhere. No excitement what-so-ever.  
Clear?" I echo my words from nearly a year ago, hoping they stick like glue in my  
team's ears.

And already I'm starting to wonder if, this time, since all he had weathered was  
a bruise to the forehead, a bump to the ego, and a mild-to-moderate concussion  
to his brain, he might think it's even more of a good time to go chasing leads on  
his own.

There are three nods. And a muttered "Crystal..." from Jane in response to my  
statement. Also like last time. Jane's reply is muffled though, because his face  
is buried into the crook of his couch, unlike that last time, when his sightless  
eyes were hidden behind stark white bandages and a black pair of too-cool-  
for-school Ray-Ban Wayfarer shades.

I leave them then, go to my office, shut the door, and start calling up people  
that knew Alec, our dead baseball scout.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"He's quiet."

Rigsby. I can tell it's him, even during the first moments of being rudely roused  
from sleep by semi-loud speaking voices, by the way the man always ends his  
sentences with an opening for someone else to chime in, if they so chose.

"_Too_ quiet."

Grace, conspiratorially, being the first one to take the bait that Rigsby had left.

"This is _Jane_ we're talking about here. He never shuts up."

Rigsby again, familiarly bad joke upon his lips.

"Well, he has today. I think he might be still be messed up from that hit  
to the head he took earlier...or something."

Cho, mildly concerned.

"Why?"

Grace, curious.

"Boss and I were in the SUV. Jane fell asleep almost as soon as we were on  
the road. Maybe his screws are still a bit loose and are just now settling?"

Cho, matter-of-fact.

A couple beats of silence.

"What _are_ you doing?"

Grace, pointed, annoyed.

"I'm going to feel his forehead, see if the knot's gone done any since he iced it."

Rigsby. And at a present distance that's _way_ too close for comfort.

"You touch me, you die, Rigsby," I say, opening my eyes wide and getting  
an eyeful of Wayne Rigsby's right nostril, up close, in return. Decidedly not  
the most pleasant image to wake up too.

But, such is life...abusive, ne'er-do-well fathers now again included.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

**THE END...**

**A/N 2: As this is my first-ever posted "Mentalist" fic ever,  
I want as much feedback as you all can give me, be it good,  
bad, or indifferent, just as long as you're still polite about it.**

THANKS! :)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX


End file.
